This is it,” I whispered to myself. “This is really it.”

Organ music filled all available air space with remarkable glory as the bridesmaids began their slow march down the center aisle, one by one. Our wedding coordinator would soon tell my daughter, Missy, to put her hand on my arm, in the traditional escort position. You know what I’m talking about: that formal, take-his-arm thing they teach awkward young boys and reluctant, blushing girls at cotillion.

In a few moments, I would obediently extend my arm so Missy and I could strike the pose and begin our journey to the altar. But for now, for just one more lingering moment, I held her hand.

This pose was more familiar. More sweet. It’s what we had done thousands of times all the way back to when we were crossing a busy street or walking along and going anywhere. She held my hand because it made her feel safe. I held her hand because it made me feel whole.

Like dolls on a conveyer belt, the perfectly spaced, bouquet-toting bridesmaids slowly glided forward.

The bride and her daddy stood quietly, taking it all in. Holding hands.  

The Plank

Today, I’m the father of two married daughters. The first wedding was in 1994, when I escorted Missy down the aisle, and five years later it happened again with Julie.

Missy and Julie came into my life in 1971 and 1974, respectively. Moments after their births, I was presented with their burrito-sized bodies. Taking their tightly swaddled forms from the nurse, I looked into their ruddy faces, drew them up to me, and kissed them. Their eyes rolled back and forth, trying to focus. They squirmed. I kissed them again. The feeling in the deepest corner of my heart was wonder and overwhelming delight.

“Hello, little girl,” I whispered to them. “I’m your daddy.”

Like a sentry, I stood guard over these little girls during their childhood years. Their mother and I watched them crawl, then stand, then walk, then run, then ride their bikes. Because they were girls, they moved very quickly from making unintelligible noises to single words, to phrases, to sentences, to paragraphs, to complete unedited manuscripts.

Now these children were elegant women. At this wedding ceremony, my younger daughter Julie, the maid of honor, was the final doll to step on the conveyor belt. Missy, the bride, along with her dad, would be next.

As I slowly walked down the church’s center aisle, I wish I could tell you that the feeling was the same rapture I felt when I gave Missy her first kiss in the hospital. But it wasn’t. This wasn’t a wedding; it was a funeral. And deep in my soul, I knew it.

I was a man walking the plank.

Back in the days of treachery on the high seas, I’m sure walking the plank wasn’t a pleasant experience. But sometimes I smile at the stereotypical eye-patched pirate, parrot on one shoulder, filthy do-rag encircling his head and only a few remaining unbrushed teeth in his mouth, forcing his victim to drop into the roiling sea by walking a narrow plank.

Shades of this father headed to the chancel.